Chapter 2
Troy
Inotice the redhead the second she pushes through the front door of the lumber center. Not because I’m looking for trouble. But because she arrives like it.
The bell over the door jingles, and a gust of cool mountain air sweeps in with her. She’s moving fast, copper hair escaping a messy knot, cheeks flushed like she just lost a fight with the wind on the walk from the parking lot. Or with life. Hard to tell.
I’m halfway through loading lumber for a new set of raised beds when she barrels past me.
Later, I catch sight of her again. She grabs a shovel like she intends to challenge someone to a duel.
I’m down the aisle, browsing new products, but find my eyes pivoting to her. So … I just watch.
You learn a lot about people by how they handle tools. She tests the shovel’s weight. Turns it sideways. Squints at it and frowns. City … definitely.
Then she drops it into her cart with the kind of irritated force people use when they’re mad at something that can’t fight back.
The cart rattles down the aisle as she moves through the store. Her items seem to not fit one project — that’s for sure. I notice a pickaxe, post hole digger, gloves. Okay, that might fit one job. I also notice roofing nails, gutter brackets, and bags of concrete.
I fold my arms. Either she’s building something ambitious or she has absolutely no idea what she’s doing. My money’s on the second.
She stops in the aisle and stares at the shovel again like she has serious questions about it.
Then she starts talking to herself. I can’t hear everything she says, but the tone carries.
She seems frustrated and determined. A little bit furious.
The kind of energy that comes from someone trying very hard not to feel something else. I’ve seen that before.
A few minutes later she rolls the cart up to the counter and unloads half of it like she’s conducting a demonstration.
“I have questions,” she tells Ethan.
Poor kid. Ethan’s been working here three months. He barely understands half the tools in the place himself. The redhead lifts the shovel.
“It feels aggressive.”
I press my lips together.
Ethan blinks at her.
“Aggressive?”
“Yes. Like if I dig with it the ground might retaliate.”
I look down and decide I’m not getting involved. Not yet. She lifts the post hole digger next.
“The internet said I needed this.”
Now that gets my attention. The internet has ruined more tools than misuse ever did. She keeps talking fast. Like the words are trying to outrun each other on the way out of her mouth.
Ethan looks like he’s considering a career change.
“That’s for fence posts,” I say before I can stop myself.
She turns around. And for a second I forget what I was about to do. Red hair and green eyes. Curves that would make a quiet man forget his manners. I’ve had my share of women who liked a man like me for about a weekend. Long enough to enjoy the idea of it. Not long enough to stay for the work.
She’s pretty in a way that isn’t careful about it. No polished presentation. Just heat and energy and a spark that looks like it could burn the place down if she got bored. She stares at me like she’s surprised I exist. Then she nearly drops the post hole digger on her foot. I catch it.
I look at the cart again, place the tool inside, and notice the concrete. She couldn’t have lugged those bags on there herself. No wonder the cart is rattling under the strain.
I glance back at her.
“Concrete?”
She answers like someone who doesn’t know the answer herself.
“Yes.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She bends to grab one of the bags. I already know what’s about to happen. The bag tilts. She jerks backward. I catch it before it crushes her foot.
The weight settles easily in my hands. Sixty pounds isn’t much when you’ve spent most of your life lifting heavier things. I toss it over my shoulder. Her eyes narrow at the bag as if it had personally conspired against her, then they land on me.
“Those are heavier than they look.”
“Yes.”
Up close I can see the exhaustion under the fire. Not just tired … maybe worn thin.
“You’re new here,” I say, because it’s obvious.
Then the explanation starts. The words pour out of her like water down a hill. I listen. I should tune it out. Let her burn herself out and move on.
I don’t.
People talk fast when they’re overwhelmed. They talk faster when they think no one’s listening. She’s doing both. By the time she finishes, I know two things.
One, she definitely bought property up the ridge. Two, she’s about three bad days away from packing everything up and selling it again. I’ve seen that pattern before.
A woman with big plans and no patience for the work between beginning and reward. Still, something about the way she speaks makes me think she doesn’t want to leave. Not really.
She’s waiting for something — advice, judgment. Maybe both.
Instead I say, “Millie’s diner is across the road.”
She blinks.
“What?”
“You’re talking faster than I can follow.”
“Let’s get lunch. Start over.”
Truth is, I want to know what she actually bought.
And whether she’s going to ruin it before it ever has a chance to grow.
If it’s the ridge property I think it is, the land’s good — just neglected.
And if she keeps trying to fix it with internet advice and a pickaxe, she’s going to wreck that place before she even starts.
She watches me like she’s deciding whether I’m serious or dangerous. Could be either with a hot redhead like her.